A Kick in the Wrong Head
by Darten
Summary: Vincent the veteran courier tries to catch up to the man who failed to kill him, traveling across the Mojave wasteland, dangers and adventures blocking his path. In-depth novelization of the Fallout New Vegas storyline. Rated M for violence and coarse language.
1. Prologue: That's All She Wrote

_"You've made your last delivery, paley. Sorry you got twisted up in this scene. From where you're kneeling it must seem like an eighteen-carat run of bad luck."_

_"But, truth is...the game was rigged from the start"._

His eyes popped open as if he was stabbed while sleeping. But he wasn't – the pain came from somewhere else: his head. His head hurt. It hurt really bad.

For a moment, he had no idea where he was, or what happened. He was in that period between dreaming and snapping out of it. Slowly, everything came into place though, and he could tell dreams from reality.

He was lying in a bed, looking up, the light hurting his eyes and giving him a wicked headache. A single ceiling fan was swirling the hot desert air around. He was almost sweating through his blanket.

"You're awake. How 'bout that," said the voice suddenly. His hand shot to his hip where the gun… There was no gun. There was nothing on him, just his shorts and an old rug covering him.

Feeling extremely hot and sweaty, he looked around, pushing the blanket from his bare chest. He was in a town house: old pre-war wooden paneling and wallpaper on the dusty walls. In front of him was a metal table with wheels – an operating table. Was this a hospital?

In front of the bed was a chair, and in it was sitting a bald, elderly man with a mustache, watching over him. The owner of the voice that startled him. He seemed harmless with his suspenders over a black shirt, a brown (might have been red once) neckerchief around his neck.

He decided the man was a small town doctor. Maybe someone found him after…

He had a thought and sat up without warning. Dizziness hit him immediately, so hard that he almost vomited.

"Whoah, easy there," the doctor said, supporting one of his shoulders with a hand. "Easy. You been out cold a couple of days now. Why don't you just relax a second? Get your bearings."

He leaned back to the wall, put his hands on his temples and waited for the fog to roll away from his eyes. He fought back the vomiting, cleared his throat which came out suspiciously like a groan. Dammit.

"Uh. Where the… What…" he tried to say as his vision slowly got back and the figure of the man who helped him became clearer once more. The doctor was leaning forward and looking at his eyes, squinting.

"Don't make any sudden moves," he said in his slightly gravelly voice. "Trust me, you gotta wait a bit before you go prancin' about. First, let's see what the damage is. How about your name? Can you tell me your name?"

"Uh…" he said, and felt silly for a moment, having to think to remember his own name. Fortunately, it didn't take long. "I'm Vincent. Vincent Connell."

"Huh," the man's brows went up. "Can't say it's what I'd have picked for you. But if that's your name, that's your name."

"What do you mean?" Vincent asked, rubbing his teary eyes.

"Well I'd 've guessed you were a Bill. Or a Bob?" the doctor said with a hint of a smile under his white mustache.

"Good guess," Vincent nodded, not quite ready to smile or show any emotion yet. Instead, he looked around the room again, and saw that he was indeed in a doctor's room. There was the operating table, another, leather-cushioned examination table farther away, some charts lying around on a table with a worn typewriter. The room was spacious, not just because it was large, but because it didn't have much furniture in it at all.

"Now, would you mind telling me where the hell I am?" he asked, just to clear up the details he couldn't have deducted from his surroundings.

"Welcome to Goodsprings. I'm Doc Mitchell."

Oh. Goodsprings. Vincent knew Goodsprings. But then again, he knew most of the settlements in the Mojave.

"Doc. Is that a first name, or are you a doctor?"

"Heh," Mitchell chuckled. "What do you think?" Then his face went serious. "You been shot in the head, Vincent."

"Yeah… What happened?" Vincent asked, leaning forward and trying his legs. They were numb like hell, but they worked.

"You been brought to me four days earlier. Victor pulled you out of the grave. You been shot in the head, left there to rot in the cemetery," the doctor explained.

"Yeah, I remember that…" Vincent said, looking away. He did remember, more in every minute. And he was getting angry, as he pieced together what he was doing here and what the facts were. His ears were ringing and he felt weak, but his mind wasn't blurry anymore.

"You're one lucky fella," the doctor said, oblivious of the rage building up in Vincent. "Bullet missed all the parts that would've killed you dead. Victor saw the fresh grave, dug it up, saw you was alive, he picked you up, brought ya right to my doorstep."

"Who's this Victor? Must be a strong son of a bitch to lift me. After digging up a grave."

Mitchell chuckled again.

"He's one of 'em robots. A machine fella. Rolls around like an escaped wheelbarrow, you know the type."

"You got a robot here?" asked Vincent, surprised. He had never been to Goodsprings, but he knew it was a small town, not the most technologically advanced place. Working machines weren't exactly the most common sights in the wastelands.

"Yeah," shrugged the doctor. "Been here since ages, helping out in town and all. His owner died a while ago, but he stayed. Guess he didn't have anywhere to go. He's a nice fella, maybe you should talk to him, see if he saw anything he didn't tell me."

"Like where that bastard who shot me is."

"Yep, maybe," Mitchell said, getting a bit suspicious. He squinted a bit and his head turned to the side, trying to see what was going n is Vincent's mind. "You remember who he was?" he asked.

"Well, yes, and no," Vincent frowned. He let out a small sigh, then explained: "I remember a checkered suit. New Vegas-type milk-drinker. Had this smooth, smug baby-face. I could tell that fucker apart from anyone, but I have no goddamn idea who he is."

"No?" It was the doctor's torn to be surprised.

"No," Vincent replied, shaking his head and getting a sting of headache for his trouble. He continued, not showing the pain. "He just attacked me with these goons, Great Khans by the look of it. Son of a bitch made those junkies do the dirty work. They dug up the grave, and then, well. A bullet later, I ended up here. Thanks to a robot, in the edge of nowhere."

Mitchell seemed embarrassed for a moment, looking away, a frown forming on his face. He bit his moustache, then said to Vincent who was looking at him quizzically: "Er, there was a note on you when Victor brought you here, and I gave it a look. I thought it might help me find a next of kin. But it was just something about a platinum chip. Does that have somethin' to do with these goons?"

"Yeah, that's it," Vincent nodded. "It was business. I'm a courier at the Mojave Express. But now it's personal, unfortunately for that motherfucker."

The doc caught on to his anger now, not that it was well-concealed. He lifted his hands in a gesture to try to calm him down. "Well, I understand your frustration, but I'd say you gotta calm down for a bit, at least until I see if you're all right."

The courier heard himself and did cut back on the visible rage a bit.

"Don't worry, I won't vent my anger on you," he said with a small, lopsided smile.

"All right," the doc nodded. "I'd be no match for you if you decided to use me as a punching bag. You would also appear rude, if I might say so."

"I'm only rude with people who deserve it. I promise I won't misbehave."

They both chuckled to themselves, and Vincent's tension did cease a bit. This Doc wasn't half bad. Nice old fellow.

"Now, I hope you don't mind, but I had to go rooting around there in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out," Mitchell changed the subject. "I take pride in my needlework, but you'd better tell me if I left anything out of place."

With that, he leaned to the side and produced a mirror from under his creaking chair. He gave it to Vincent, who lifted it in front of his face, bracing for the worst…

But his reflection didn't differ from the last look he took on it. His skin was still a bit hardened and brown from the Sun, his shoulder-length hair and full beard and moustache still had the same amount of grey in it (which was more than a half now, being past his fortieth birthday a good while ago), his eyes were the same shade of light blue. There seemed to be one extra scar on his forehead, but he already had scars on both of his eyebrows and under his mouth too.

"How'd I do?" Mitchell asked scratching his moustache.

"I see a new scar," Vincent admitted. "But I had plenty of those before I came here. One more won't make any difference."

"Yeah, I saw those. Couldn't do anythin' about 'em, didn't wanna mess up your skin too much."

"Been at some dangerous jobs around the desert. Never had to be pretty to do 'em."

"I can imagine," Mitchell said with a warm smile.

"Yeah," Vincent said, looking behind the doctor's shoulders with a contemplative gaze. "Been at the job since I was twenty."

"How many years is that?"

"Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight." Vincent shrugged. "Hell knows the exact date. As you can see, I ain't a fresh youngster. But I can pull my worth just fine."

"A healthy attitude," said Mitchell, nodding.

There was silence for a moment. Vincent looked down on himself and realized for the second time that he was half naked. He had a scar on his chest too: his right nipple almost came clean off once when a machete was swung at him by some drugged-up raider. He had the huge scar ever since.

"Where's my clothes?" he asked, looking up at Mitchell again. "Don't tell me I was in that grave in my underdrawers."

The doctor spread his hands for a second.

"Well, you'll be disappointed, but yes, you were. You had this undershirt, but it was so grimy I had to wash it. Your backpack didn't have any extra clothes in it. Oh, and those socks? They're mine. On the house."

Vincent looked down on his feet, and sure enough, he was wearing black socks, one of them slipped down a bit. He pulled it back up on his ankle.

"So you been watching over me while I was half-naked?"

"Easy," Mitchell lifted his hands as if he was threatened with a gun. "I'm a doctor, remember? I had to check you out, see if you got more wounds. You didn't. But putting clothes back on an unconscious man ain't as easy as taking 'em off. So even if you had all your clothes I couldn't 've dressed ya up.

"If you say so, doc," smiled Vincent. "I can see you're probably not into men anyway."

"Indeed I'm not," Mitchell said with a huge nod, almost a bow. "So, I got most of it right anyway. Stuff that mattered. Your face, I mean."

"Yeah. Yeah," said Vincent, then he looked around for his backpack, sticking his neck out. It was not in the room. "You got that undershirt here by any chance? Getting' uncomfortable here."

"Oh, yeah, yeah," the doctor said, and he stood up. "It's over here." He walked to the other examination table and picked up the gray undershirt. "Here you go," he said, walking back to Vincent and handing it to him. Vincent noticed the doc had a limp.

"Thanks," he said, not mentioning the bad leg. He put on the fitting shirt, immediately feeling a bit hot. He ignored it.

"Okay. No sense keeping you in bed anymore," Mitchell said, standing next to his chair. "Let's see if you can get on your feet."

"I should hope so," Vincent said. The dizziness passed, only the headache remained, but he figured that would remain for a long time, after having been through brain surgery.

He leaned on his thighs and stood up. His knees and some of his fingers cracked, but he could lift himself without much trouble. He felt his left thigh tremble a bit, but that was probably just the blood coming back to his strained muscles.

"Good," Mitchell said. "I did move your muscles a bit so you wouldn't get so cramped. I had no idea when you'd wake up, could have been a month even. Muscles tend to go bad when they're not used for a long time, ya know. Well, all right. Why don't you walk down to the end of the room? Over by that vigor tester machine there."

The doc gestured at the machine at the other end of the room, near a door. It was a peculiar construct: shaped like some cabinet, it had a metal lever on it, and other than that, only a bunch of flashy signs and slogans. VIT-O-MATIC VIGOR TESTER, and also TRUSTWORTHY for good measure, all in a funny arrangement over the machine. The rest was a large panel which looked like it could write out different things with the help of some rotating letters… And a lot of light-bulbs. What the hell was it? He started through the room to check it out.

"Take it slow, now. It ain't a race," the doctor worried. But Vincent reached the strange machine without much trouble. The first steps were a bit slower than what he was used to, but the last ones were almost normal. His knee creaked a bit again, but no pain came with it, so it was fine.

"Looking good so far," Mitchell said, relieved. Then he nodded at the vigor tester. "Go ahead and give the vigor tester a try. We'll learn right quickly if you got back all your faculties."

"How does it work?" Vincent asked, staring at it.

"Beats me. It's a machine." the doctor said, stepping next to him. "When the light turns on, you pull that lever, as strong as you can, as fast as you can. The machine gives an estimate about how strong and fast you were. That kind of thing."

"I see. Well…"

"I'm turning it on," Mitchell said and he flicked a switch in a secluded part near the back of the machine. Then he looked at Vincent, who was looking at the light that was pointed out to him. Nothing happened.

Then suddenly, the light turned on. Vincent grabbed the lever and yanked on it. It didn't have much give. Did he pull it hard enough? Or was it like this deliberately?

"All right," the doctor nodded. "Pay attention, it's gonna turn on again."

Vincent stared at the light again, bending his fingers into a fist for a few times. When the light came on, he jerked the lever again. It felt better this time. His second pull was definitely harder.

"Very good," Mitchell said with folded arms. "One more time, and it's done."

This time the bulb lit up a bit later than expected, catching Vincent off guard. He swore under his breath as he performed his task for the third and final time.

Suddenly, the machine binged five times, and a bunch of words came up on the intricate display, showing a line with markers on them, representing his score in strength, perception, agility… Didn't seem like a very reliable machine to Vincent. Looked like some funfair attraction.

"Yep, that's a pretty standard score there, for a fella your age," Mitchell said, looking seriously at the figures. "But after what you been through, I'd say that's great news."

Vincent shrugged. "So I can go?"

"Well, we know your vitals are good," Mitchell patted the machine after turning it off, "But that don't mean that bullet didn't leave you nuttier than a Bighorner dropping. It went right through your brains after all. What do you say you take a seat on my couch and we go through a couple questions? See if your dogs are still barking."

Vincent frowned. Was this really necessary? He felt fine.

"Well, whatever. All right."

The doctor led him to another room with a dusty couch and a smaller seat in front of it. This room was a little homelier. It had a few bookshelves, some more couches and chairs, even a fireplace. The decorations were mostly doctor's tools, although there were two small photos on the wall too. There was also an old television set, but it seemed to be completely broken.

"All right," the doctor said after they both sat down facing each other. He picked up a book and opened it on a page marked with a piece of paper. There were other markers too jutting out from the worn pages. Vincent had no time to read the title.

"I'm gonna say a word," the doctor said. "I want you to say the first thing that comes into your mind."

Vincent's brows went up.

"Really?"

"Really," Mitchell nodded, then put his index finger on a line in the text.

"Dog," he said.

"Cat?" Vincent replied with a startled expression on his face.

"House."

"…Shelter," he said, taking some more time.

"Night," came the next word.

"That would be… The stars? I dunno."

"That's not the first thing that came into your mind," Mitchell said, looking up from the book. "You thought about it for too long."

"Ah, fuck it," Vincent whisked, irritated. "This is bullshit."

"No, no. Just say what the first thing was," Mitchell touched his shoulder for a moment. "There ain't no problem in a li'l mistake. You just woke up."

Vincent sighed and looked at the cracked ceiling, but the thought eluded him.

"I forgot. I don't remember."

"Well, like I said, ain't no problem. Let's move on."

The doctor looked at the book, examined it for a second, then turned a page.

"Enemy," he said.

"Shoot," came the answer from Vincent, without hesitation this time.

"Now that _was _the first thing," Mitchell said with a strong nod, then looked up at his patient. "If a li'l violent. But I can't say I blame you, after what happened to you. Let's move on."

"All right."

"Light."

"Dark."

"Mother."

"Father. … I'm just saying opposites, ain't I?"

The doctor smiled.

"That doesn't matter," he explained. "What I wanted to see is if you can think quick enough."

"Hope I can," Vincent shrugged. "I feel like I can, that's for sure."

"That's a start. And I didn't find no problem either. I was also looking out for some odd answers, and you didn't give no odd answers at all. So I guess that about does it."

"No more tests?" Vincent asked, looking up from his lap.

"Eh, I've got this here old psychology book," Mitchell lifted the book he was reading from. "But I ain't that kinda doctor, so what I do is look at what the book says. Couldn't give you an accurate reading myself from these all questions. Got them ink spot tests and all kinds of questions, drawing exercises… Beats me how it works. I got more from talkin' to you, and I say you're fine."

"Hm. Thanks for the confidence, I guess."

The doctor closed the book with a visible thud.

"Well, that's all she wrote," he said, then smiled with a lift of his brows. He put the book down next to Vincent's spot on the couch. Then he touched his bad leg and rubbed on it for a second, then he rose from his seat again, inviting the courier to do the same.

"Come with me, I'll see you out."

He led him through a largely empty corridor to what seemed like the front door. The Sun's light crept in under it, illuminating the dust gently swirling over the floorboards. The doctor stepped to a small shelf which had a bag on it – Vincent's bag. He pointed at it.

"Here. These are yours. Was all you had on you when you was brought in."

"Took my clothes but not my bag, huh, those idiots," the courier said, looking inside the duffel. It had his pistol in it – piece of junk, couldn't sell it for two caps, but it still worked – along with some scattered bobby pins, and nothing else. Except, there were five stimpaks – syringes filled with medicine – thrown in too that weren't his.

"The stimpaks are from me for the road," Mitchell said. "If your muscles decide they don't wanna play properly after all, you give 'em a prick with one of those. Helps the bloodflow. And speaking of clothes," he pointed at a heap of blue cloth next to the bag, "put that on, too, so the locals don't pick on you for lacking modesty. Never was much my style anyway," he added.

Vincent looked at the clothes. It was a jumpsuit, blue, with the number "21" on its back. It looked ridiculous, but it beat going out to the desert in his underpants. He didn't want to be rude and ask the doctor if he could have spared some of his normal clothes – maybe all he had was on him. Didn't seem like a very rich fellow.

"Thanks," he said as he pulled on the clothes. "What is this, anyway?"

"Don't mention it. It's what I'm here for," Mitchell said with a smile. "And the jumpsuit, well, it was mine. I grew up in one of them Vaults made before the war."

"Ah."

"Speaking of which…" Mitchell said, looking back to a doorway leading presumably to his bedroom, "Well, if you're heading back out there, you ought to have this. Wait here."

He passed Vincent and limped out of sight. Vincent could hear him open a creaky drawer, then pull open a drawer. He appeared soon with a cylindrical piece of metal in his hands. As he brought it closer, Vincent could see it had a rather large display screen, whatever it was. He had a guess though.

"They call it a Pip-Boy," the doc explained, and Vincent nodded. Thought so. He didn't see one up close before, never used one, but they were around in places. They cost shitloads of caps though, so people who had them out there didn't really walk around swinging it into people's faces.

"We all got one, in the Vault," Mitchell continued. "Ain't much use to me now, but you might want such a thing, after what you been through. I know what it's like, having something taken from you."

Vincent took the rather valuable gift, and looked the doctor in the eye. For a moment, he thought about asking about that last comment – Mitchell showed some unexpected sorrow for a second there… But the doc stepped closer and prevented him to speak up, grabbing his left hand.

"Here," he said. "You slide your hand through it, and fasten this here belt, and… there you go, it works. It monitors your blood pressure, has a map in it, you can read computer stuff with it, files and all. Make notes, if that's your thing."

It wasn't. In fact, Vincent didn't really think the Pip-Boy would help him in any way. But what the hell, it was worth a try. If it didn't work out, he could always send it back here with a thank-you note. As he looked at the screen showing his vital signs, he realized the thing was rather heavy, and it had a bit of a strong grip, maybe too strong… Not a good start. Maybe he'd take it down and put it on only when he needed it.

"You should talk to Sunny Smiles before you leave town," the doctor said, snapping Vincent out of staring at the Pip-Boy with knitted brows. "She can help you learn to fend for yourself in the desert. I mean, to get back on your feet. See if you can still shoot as well as you could. She's a nice girl."

"I'm pretty sure I can take care of myself, doc," Vincent said, and pated the old man's shoulder. Mitchell seemed a little embarrassed.

"Well, anyway, if you wanna meet her, she'll likely be at the saloon. And I reckon some of the older folks at the saloon might be able to help you out, too. And the metal fella, Victor, who pulled you outta the grave."

"I'll talk to him," Vincent said as Mitchell opened the door and let a whiff of hot morning air in with a bit of dust. After the white shock of sudden light left his eyes, the town of Goodsprings appeared before the courier's eyes. The visible houses were mostly in ruins, but a little further something colorful was flashing on one of the buildings.

"That the saloon?" he asked.

"Yep," the doctor said but pointed at it too, just in case. "Can't miss them flashing letters."

Vincent nodded and stepped out the door. He turned back to the doc though.

"Thank you for everything, Doc. I guess I owe you my life. I'm not used to that kind of thing, but… thanks."

Mitchell smiled again, shrugging humbly.

"If you ever get hurt out there, come right back. I'll fix you up," he said, the friendly smile remaining on his face. Then, with a mischievous glare in his eyes he added: "But try not to get killed anymore."

Vincent contemplated his words with a few nods, then looked behind him, at the town. Dust swirled around on the cracked concrete road, the wind whistling through heaps of rubble, a door slamming shut somewhere in the distance.

He turned back to Doc Mitchell one last time and looked him in the eye. His voice was low, but every word rang clear in the old man's ears:

"Oh, it's not me who's gonna get killed dead, doc. Not this time around."


	2. Chapter One: It Ain't a Race

The Sun's burning rays flickered through the revolving, rusty vanes of Goodsprings' windmill, reflecting from the still water in troughs standing in bighorner's pens. The large beasts, given name by their twisted horns being bigger than their heads grazed on the brownish grass as the gusts of the wind tousled their long, brown fur. Three farmers were out tilling their fields, but the rest of the settlement was quiet and unmoving.

Goodsprings, one of the old world's towns in the former state of Nevada, was destroyed when most of human civilization wiped itself out in the Great War two hundred and four years ago. Not destroyed completely, of course. One out of five houses was actually still standing, although marred by time and helped to endure by their new owners. The rest was rubble, brought down by the terrible force of nuclear bombs, or collapsed in the fires and earthquakes of the aftermath. Charred husks of walls still protruded from the earth, with old household appliances, ovens, washing machines, and other now unrecognizable furniture caked in dirt in their shadows. These heaps of debris were now an everyday sight in any town, dried and compressed by two hundred years of nature's slowly recovering effects.

The Sun's rays were more dangerous, the very air was radioactive, and wildlife has mutated over the times, posing great threat to the few remaining humans of the world. Humans, who, of course, adapted to these conditions. The generations of people growing up in the irradiated shadows of their ancestors' past were evolving into something never seen before. The times when most all human children were born with disabilities, when every man was an old man in his fortieth year, when people lived from day to day with dirt on their faces were gone, and a new kind of civilization was born.

Using electronic relics of the past as well as inventing their new ideas, people were thriving once again. A certain standard of life was slowly coming back. Factions formed, towns were rebuilt to livable condition, and once again there were soldiers who got money for protecting others, farmers who sold their surplus food to merchants, scientists trying to improve the world, doctors aiding the sick. There was fresh water everywhere in former Nevada, and electricity too.

And, fitting a civilization where folks were connected with each other in different towns, there was a posting service too, the Mojave Express, with one courier currently being in Goodsprings. But this courier didn't come here to deliver something. This courier, named Vincent Connell had another mission now.

Trying to ignore that he was wearing a ridiculous blue jumpsuit, Vincent walked from Doc Mitchell's house where he was miraculously nursed back to health after being shot in the head, down to the town itself. The worn shoes he got from the doctor with the jumpsuit were audibly tapping on the patches of concrete remaining on the otherwise gravelly road. Nothing but that and the wind were making noises. Not seeing the farmers some houses further down he wouldn't have believed people actually lived here if he hadn't just come from a man saying so.

He was heading to the saloon with the flashing letters SALOON flickering in bright red and other colors under the roof. When he reached it, he saw another neon sign announcing that the place was always open. There was also a string of decorative light bulbs running under the roof of the porch. Quite excessive. The only thing that wasn't lit up like a New Vegas casino was the word PROSPECTOR in front of the SALOON. Guess that wasn't so important.

"Howdy," the old man sitting on one of the chairs on the porch said. Vincent didn't see him at first and was once again startled. This was the second time someone caught him by surprise, and he shook his still aching head in his own disapproval.

"Uh… Howdy," he said back, lifting one of his hands as a quick wave.

The man sitting there was probably past his seventieth birthday. His wrinkled, sun-starched face was half hidden under the shadow of a straw hat and behind a long, thick, white beard.

"You must be the fellow who got shot in the cemetery," he said in his slow manner.

"Yes," Vincent said curtly.

"Looking for something?" the old man asked, leaning back in the chair. Vincent looked at the saloon door, than back at the man.

"I was told I can find a Sunny Smiles here. She the town's expert on weapons and such."

"Sunny, of course," nodded the old man. "She's a nice girl."

"Yeah, well, I was told I should talk to her. So…"

"She's not in," the old man said, cutting him off with a gentle hand gesture. "She's going out of town to hunt down some geckos."

"Oh?"

"But you can still catch her, she's not in a hurry. Oh, there she is, right there!"

The man pointed behind Vincent. Turning around, he could see a girl with a dog on her heels walking down a road at the edge of town.

"Sunny!" the old man suddenly yelled out. The girl stopped and faced them. "This man wants to speak to you!"

"Oh, all right!" Sunny yelled back. Propping the rifle she was carrying on her shoulder she started walking towards the porch. Vincent, trying not to seem rude took a few steps too, until they met a few yards next to the saloon. As soon as Vincent got close the dog started growling at him. He stopped in his tracks, glaring at the animal from over his nose.

"Cheyenne, stay," the girl touched the dog's back. Looking up at Vincent, she said: "Don't worry, she won't bite unless I tell her to."

"And I don't mind dogs until they bite," said Vincent.

"Anyway, I'll be inside," said the old man and walked into the saloon.

"All right, Pete," Sunny smiled, then focused her attention on the courier. "So, what can I do for you?"

She was a pretty girl, although too young for Vincent's tastes. She couldn't be more than thirty. Her hair was a rich tone of brown, held back from her face which was unusually clean and flawless for a wastelander. Her brows arched over her dark brown eyes, and one hand was resting on her hip – her figure wasn't half bad, even under the worn leather armor she wore. In her other hand was a wooden varmint rifle, a weak gun, but it could do the job if used properly.

"I was told by Doc Mitchell that you might help me see if my aim is as good as I would like it to be," Vincent said.

"Oh. You're the one the Doc patched up after the… accident," Sunny said, then she shrugged. "Well, the accident being you being shot in the head and being buried."

"Something like that."

"So. You want me to take you to the shooting range, right? You have a gun?"

"Yeah, a pistol," Vincent said, pointing back at his backpack behind him.

"I guess you know how to use it, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah. It's just that the doc said I should check out if my aim is back to normal. Guess he didn't want me to shoot up the place unsupervised or somethin'."

The girl nodded.

"Sounds like you need all the help you can get after what they done to you. All right, come with me. I've set up some bottles to shoot at behind the saloon."

Vincent grunted and followed her.

Sure enough, at the back of the saloon was a fence, and on it were standing some empty, yellow-tinted Sunset Sarsaparilla bottles. There were some shards on the ground, and plenty of bullet holes in the brick wall, marking this as the town training ground. Opposite this was a farm building with a garden-sized cornfield, and the dog ran ahead, chasing something through it. By the time they got there too, Cheyenne had come back, sitting down at Sunny's side, drawing in the dirt with a wagging tail.

"Now, you see those sarsaparilla bottles on that fence there?"the girl asked, and Vincent of course did. "Take this and try to hit a couple of 'em. I have plenty of ammo for this thing, no need to waste yours."

Vincent shrugged and took Sunny's rifle. If he could shoot straight with this, he could shoot straight with his pistol too. And she was right: he only had only the one clip for his own gun. He had to do something about that if he wanted to journey across the desert. And he needed a good sharp machete too for close encounters. He had one, and a rifle too, but they were taken from him as they were belted to his clothes. He hoped that piece of shit old rifle would go off the other way around in one of those fuckers' faces.

He looked at the rifle, turning it sideways, then cocked it, lifted it in a tenth of a second, and without much aiming, he pointed it at a bottle, and fired.

He missed.

He shot off another round. Another miss, hitting the wall, chipping a tiny but of brick away.

"Dammit," he said, aimed down the sight and fired the rest of the rounds. All of them went into the wall, except one, which finally shot off the neck of the bottle and sent the rest toppling down to the ground.

"I can shoot better than this," said Vincent, scratching his right eyebrow, embarrassed.

"Well, if you don't mind me saying," said Sunny, "If you don't try to show off so much, and concentrate on actually hitting something instead, you might shoot better."

"I'm not…" tried Vincent but then he shut up. Maybe there was a bit of proving himself on the line here.

"Try crouching down and staying still, It'll help your aim. You know this, right?" she asked, handing him some more rounds.

"I do, I do," said Vincent, reloaded, lowered himself to one knee in anger and shot another one off to the wall, way above the targets. "Fuck!"

"Don't hurry so much!" said the girl and Vincent could hear her voice cracked from the laugh she was trying to conceal. But he had to put it out of his mind. To calm himself.

He steadied his breathing, looked down the sight, adjusted his knee a bit… BANG.

The rightmost bottle exploded from the middle and clinked on the ground in pieces.

"There we go. Nice shot," said Sunny.

He aimed a bit to the left, pulled the trigger, and another bottle went down.

"Okay. You got the hang of it."

A little bit more to the left, steady, shoot, and a third bottle was finished too. After that one, Vincent stood up.

"Told ya I'm not that bad."

"Didn't seem the bad type anyway," smiled Sunny, and added: "You're probably capable of fighting more than sarsaparilla bottles."

"You fight?" asked Vincent casually, handing back the varmint rifle to the girl. "You the town sheriff or something?"

"Nah," whisked Sunny then took the weapon. "I hunt geckos, mostly. The meat's pretty good and I can always find a buyer for the hides. I also help keep the town clear of radscorpions and coyotes. Not many people live in Goodsprings, so wildlife is always creeping in. But I'm not a sheriff."

She aimed down the sight and took down a bottle herself. BANG.

"So a hunter, huh."

"Yeah," she said, putting the rifle's strap around her shoulder and holstering it on her back. Then she glanced over the horizon behind her. Turning back to Vincent, she said: "Tell you what. I was going to chase some geckos away from our water supply. Darn critters are attracted to it. Why don't you come along? I can bring out a rifle for you."

Vincent frowned and scratched his sweaty eyebrow again.

"Uh, well, I think I'm gonna turn that offer down," he said. "I haven't eaten anything solid in days. I need a meal before I can go around shootin' animals."

Sunny pulled her mouth for a second, then shrugged.

"Suit yourself. Hoped this helped you some."

"Definitely. Thanks," said Vincent and took his hand to his head to lift his hat. He realized he hadn't had one, but he imitated the gesture nevertheless. "Uh, and take care of yourself out there."

"It's just geckos," said Sunny in a confident tone. "Besides, Cheyenne here's gonna keep me company."

She looked down at the dog and scratched its head. Cheyenne licked her fingers in loving response.

"Hey, and do me a favor," Sunny said, poking with her head at the direction of the saloon, "Trudy – she's the bartender up at the Prospector, kind of the town mom – she likes to meet newcomers."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She'd be cross with me if I didn't ask you to poke your head in and say hi. I know you're heading in anyway, just saying. Don't miss her if she isn't in when you enter."

"All right, I won't," said Vincent. "So, gecko steaks, right? Any of 'em served in the saloon?"

"You bet. Trudy's an excellent cook. You're gonna love it. Oh, and just out of curiosity, what's your name?"

He was surprised by the question, because he thought he already introduced himself. Turns out he forgot.

"I'm Vincent."

"All right, Vincent," Sunny nodded. "See you around."

He nodded at her, then they both turned around and went their way. Sunny to hunt down some geckos, and Vincent to have something to eat at the saloon, and to ask this Trudy if she knew anything about the guys he wanted to shoot in the head.

* * *

As he entered the door, he didn't see the bar at first, but he found it in a second glance. The saloon was divided into two rooms by a wall. Dusty old carpets hid the wooden floor at places. The ceiling was decorated with wooden paneling, as were the walls, with old, framed concert and show posters giving some faded color to the rooms. The lights were on to help the sunshine light the place, that alone being a bit insufficient through the dirt-caked windows. At least it was a bit cooler inside than out.

In the space in front of the entrance there was a pool table and a few dining tables with empty pitchers on them, surrounded by stools with scratched pillows. A jukebox was shining with blue and green neon lights, filling the saloon with the music of Marty Robbins. The old world's music.

Vincent turned away from this room and started for the bar, where he was surprised to hear sounds of an argument.

"I'm done being nice," said the sound of a man. Stepping closer, no longer obscured by the wall, Vincent saw it was a young black man in what seemed to be a black bulletproof vest which had the letters NCRCF on it. A prison guard?

"If you don't hand Ringo over soon, I'm going to get my friends and we're burning this town to the ground, got it?" the man said, lifting a finger to the middle-aged woman in front of him.

"We'll keep that in mind," she said sarcastically in her rather deep, husky voice. "Now, if you're not going to buy something, get out."

She was quite attractive. Black hair, not quite shoulder-length, tucked behind her ears, a beige sweater over a slightly lighter blouse, a white skirt with some kind of pattern…

"I'll be back," said the man and turned around to storm out. Vincent was in the way though. He didn't step aside.

"What do you want?" the young man said, stabbing in the air with his chin. He was half a head-length shorter than Vincent who drew himself up to enhance that. They stood close to each other and eyed each other in defiance.

Then finally, Vincent stood aside and the man stormed out, after taking a look back at the courier's strange jumpsuit. He left the door open.

Vincent closed the door and looked at the counter. The woman was already standing behind it, looking back at him.

"Well, you've been causing quite a stir," she said with a small smile which made Vincent sile too. "Glad I finally got to meet you. Welcome to the Prospector Saloon."

She motioned to the row of tables and booths in front of the counter. There were only two more people in the whole saloon: the old man from the porch, Pete, was sitting at a table, looking in front of himself, and there was a man with a moustache – a farmer, by the look of it– sitting at the counter on a stool nursing a bottle of beer.

Vincent went to the counter.

"You must be Trudy," she said to the woman. "I'm Vincent."

"Sunny told you about me, huh?" Trudy said with her smile widening for a second.

"Yeah," Vincent said. "She also told me about gecko steaks."

"Hungry, aren't you?" Trudy said with raised brows. "Well, understandable, after old Mitchell feeding you through a tube for days."

"Exactly. I have some caps, so… can I have a meal?"

"Of course," Trudy said with a friendly nod. "Unfortunately, we're out of gecko steaks. Sunny's just going out to hunts some. I have some iguana though, if that's fine."

"Anything would be fine at this point," Vincent said, sitting down at a stool in front of Trudy. "But I happen to like iguana. So yes, please."

Trudy smiled and turned around, grabbing a sooty-bottomed pan and a wooden spoon from the counter behind her. She held the pan over a plate and scooped a good portion of iguana bits onto it.

"You want something to drink with that?"

"Uh, yeah. Lots. Soda, like two bottles."

"Sarsaparilla good for you?"

"Excellent."

She set down the pan on the counter and grabbed three spoonfuls of corn from a bowl as a siding to the meat. She put the plate in front of Vincent.

"Thank you," he said and almost started eating with his hands, but Trudy quickly gave her a fork from a drawer. He stuck it into a bit of meat and put the first bite in a long time into his mouth. It was cold but well-spiced.

"Goddamn," he said. "It's delicious."

He shoveled some corn into his mouth as Trudy set a Sarsaparilla bottle down next to his plate and opened it with a hiss. She grabbed the bottle cap and dropped into a cash machine.

"Thank you," she said. Vincent looked up from his food.

"So what was that all about? That fella in the prison vest."

"Oh. That," Trudy said. "It looks like our little town got itself dragged into the middle of something we don't want anything to do with."

"Oh yeah?"

"About a week ago, this trader, Ringo, comes into town. Survivor of an attack, he says. Bad men after him, needs a place to hide," Trudy explained, resting her elbows on the counter. "We figured he was just in shock, so we gave him a place to lie low. We didn't actually expect anyone to come after him."

"But that jackass did?" asked Vincent and swallowed another bite.

"Yeah. Joe Cobb."

"Bad trouble," said Pete at his table absent-mindedly. Vincent glanced at him, then back on Trudy.

"He NCR?" he asked. Trudy chuckled.

"He's a convict," she said, surprising Vincent. "Just without the chains. Powder Gangers is what they call themselves. Plenty more like him out there."

"Powder gangers?"

"Chain gangs, really. The NCR brought them in from California to work on the rail lines. Problem is, it turns out that giving convicts a bunch of dynamite and blasting powder isn't the best idea."

"So they escaped prison?"

"Yeah. Was a big escape not too long ago. Some of 'em stuck together so they could make trouble. That's what we're dealing with now."

Vincent didn't say anything for a moment, just ate. He was half through with the meal- He grabbed the sarsaparilla bottle and drank more than half of it with one breath. It was unbelievably refreshing. Then he set the bottle down and looked at the pretty woman again.

"Sorry for asking, but why not just shoot the fella? Send a message for them Powder gangers?"

"You mean murder him?" Trudy asked, taken aback a bit, but fortunately not disgusted, just surprised. "That's not our way, even if Cobb is scum. He can bluster and threaten all he wants. He didn't actually hurt anyone."

"All bark and no bite, huh?"

"Well, he's dangerous, but he doesn't want to shoot up the town. They get plenty of food and stuff from here, so they would be in trouble if we shut down."

"You supply them?" blinked Vincent.

"Not me, only if some of 'em come into the saloon for a meal and don't go looking for trouble. Chet, though – he's the owner of the general store – he deals with them quite a bit."

"But they don't make trouble," Vincent said with a little skepticism in his voice.

"Not really," Trudy shrugged. "They're loud, sometimes drunk, talk crap. But like you said, all bark and no bite."

"So far," the farmer farther down the bar said suddenly. "Someday, they gonna come 'ere for Ringo. With guns."

Trudy sighed.

"You want another beer, Donny?"

Donny looked at the small amount of beer in his bottle and said: "Yeah."

Trudy went to the fridge to get a beer. Vincent and Donny met each other's eyes, then went back to their own business.

"Some of the others, like Sunny, will probably stand up for Ringo if he asks for help, which he hasn't," she said while he took a bottle from the fridge and closed it back. "Personally, I hope he sneaks out of town one night and takes the Powder Gangers with him. We're not soldiers. We can't defend ourselves if people come in here shooting up the town."

Vincent munched on an iguana bit, deep in thought.

"Where is this Ringo?"

Trudy gave the beer to the farmer, who tipped his hat.

"He's holed up at the abandoned gas station up the hill," she said.

"I see," the courier said, and he didn't say anything else while he finished his food. When he did, he drank the rest of the sarsaparilla, and was happy to see Trudy turning to the fridge again to give him another one.

"Thank you," he said quietly, and took a sip from the new bottle. Trudy took the plate and put it on a pile of dirty plates.

Vincent inhaled sharply, then let out a long sigh from his nose.

"Say," he said, "Do you happen to know anything about the people who shot me?"

Trudy thought about it for a minute while Vincent fingered the bottle.

"Not much, other than they're a bunch of freeloaders who expected a few rounds on the house. I was able to get them to pay up, though," she finally said. "Of course, one of the Great Khans did knock my radio to the floor "by accident," and it hasn't been working since."

Vincent looked at the broken radio next to the cash machine. It didn't seem that broken, but he didn't want to try to look at it and then simply say he can't do anything about it. He just nodded.

"They come in here after they buried me?" he asked.

"Don't know," Trudy said. "Didn't seem to be the case though, they weren't in a hurry. And the robot said it dug you out after they were gone, and it saw the shooting. So they probably caught you after leaving here. But I didn't hear the shot. I mean, a shot isn't a rare thing to hear, so I wouldn't have known."

Vincent nodded slowly through all this. Then he scratched his aching head.

"Anything about where they were headed? Did they say something?"

"They were having some kind of argument about it, but the guy in the checkered coat kept shushing them."

Vincent got a bit excited as he heard that.

"What was the argument abo…" he started, but the old man started speaking:

"The one in the fancy suit seemed to be calling the shots, that's as much as I know. Word of advice though."

Vincent turned around on the stool and looked at him.

"If you ever catch up with him, watch out," Pete said. "The man's got cold eyes like a snake. Can't be trusted, I'd say."

"You seen him too?"

"Yes. Saw the radio get knocked down too."

Vincent nodded and turned back to Trudy, as the old man was half occupied with whatever thoughts he had on his mind.

"So did they say where they were headed?" he asked her. Trudy nodded.

"Sounded like they came in from the north through Quarry Junction. If that's the case I can't say I blame them for not wanting to go back. That whole area is overrun with the kind of critters that just get mad if you shoot 'em. Merchants avoid that whole stretch of I-15 like it's radioactive. Which it could be for all I know."

"I know the I-15," the courier said to push along the account.

"I didn't hear exactly, but the leader was talking about the Strip," Trudy continued. "Fella wants to get there and avoid the 15, he'd have to go east. Take Highway 93 up."

"Highway 93," Vincent looked down on the counter in front of him. So the son of a bitch was from New Vegas. A route was starting to materialize inside his head, as he knew the map of the Mojave well. The road to the 93 was actually a huge "U"-shaped detour to the south. If he wanted to cut ahead of them, he could cross the mountainous wasteland straight to the East, get to a town named Novac. The assholes, following the road would go south to Primm, then turn to Nipton after another few day's journey and start finally going back towards the north to reach Novac. He could be waiting for them there. He would be there days before they would arrive.

It was risky though. They could take detours, or even die on the road. Or decide in Primm that they'll turn back and risk the I-15 after all. Vincent wasn't in the best condition either to trek through the mountains. And Primm was where the Mojave Express outpost was. His boss, Johnson Nash was there. And Vincent wanted to ask Nash what the fuck was going on with that platinum chip if it was so important that a checkerd-suit hotshot would kill him for it.

So he would follow in his attacker's footsteps. That would be his best bet. He didn't have to hurry. If he caught up to the fucker one year from now, that was good enough.

Having decided in himself what to do, he raised his head. Trudy was cleaning a pitcher with a rag. The farmer, Donny, was scratching his nose vigorously. Pete sighed audibly behind him.

There was, of course, one more source of information about the thieves. The robot.

"What do you know about the robot who dug me up?" he asked. Trudy looked up from the pitcher, a bit startled. Then he shook her head.

"I know that… thing… as much as anyone else around here. It mostly keeps to itself, which is just fine by me."

Old Pete spoke up again:

"The machine? Harmless, no matter what Trudy says. She thinks it's hiding something, but I think it's just a broken down relic with no place to be."

"Hiding something?" Vincent asked. "Is it dangerous? What does it do around here? Guard the town?"

"No," Trudy replied. "Other than rolling around once in awhile, it doesn't do anything useful as far as I can tell. Goes away for a day sometimes, but it always comes back. I don't know why it took an interest in you, but I'd be careful. It's never halped anyone before."

"Really? Doesn't interact with people?"

"It acts friendly enough, but I don't trust that whole "cheerful cowboy" act. I find it all very creepy."

"Cowboy act?"

"It has this screen for a face, and there's a picture of a cowboy there, cartoony. Speaks like one too."

"I can understand why that would be creepy," Vincent admitted.

"I think it's amusing," Pete said.

"Yeah?" Vincent frowned, thinking to himself. "How long it's been here? The doc mentioned something about its owner."

"Yeah," Trudy said, coming back in front of Vincent. "Some people have said its owner lived here, but no one knows who it was. Man kept to himself his entire life. Only thing I know is that it was here when I took over the saloon seven years ago."

"It was here long before that too," said Pete. "I spoke to the man a few times, but he wasn't the friendliest fellow."

"I see," said Vincent, scratching his beard. "So, where is it? Can I talk to it?"

"As I saw, it's gone," Trudy said. "It might come back in a day or two."

"Yes, I've seen it roll away," Pete said. Whenever the old man spoke, Vincent had to turn back to him.

"Which way?"

"That way, down the road," Pete whisked in the direction of the saloon entrance, roughly to the south. Lucky Vincent was going just that way. His luck seemed to want to compensate after letting him get shot in the head and buried.

"Well, thank you all for the information," he said finally, drinking the last of his sarsaparilla. "I think I'm gonna head out. What do I owe for the meal, Miss Trudy?"

Trudy chuckled.

"I'm no Miss. Just Trudy. And seventeen caps."

Vincent set his light bag from his shoulder to his lap and rummaged around on its bottom, finding bottle caps one by one. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. He put them all in front of Trudy, and tried to hide that he was startled to see he had only one cap left. The meal wasn't expensive – he was dirt poor. He took this platinum chip job because it paid a crapload of money.

"Thank you," he said.

"No, thank you," Trudy said, then she smiled. Vincent smiled back, then hung the bag back on his shoulder and stood up. He saw the sleeves of his jumpsuit and frowned.

"Hey, would you care to tell me if there was some place around where I can find some clothes maybe? I look ridiculous in this jumpsuit."

Trudy almost laughed.

"I don't know. I think it brings out your eyes."

"Very funny," Vincent said with a sarcastic smile. "So, are there any abandoned places around? I haven't got much money to buy clothes, to be honest."

"Plenty of places," Pete said. "Most of the valuable loot was already taken, but there might be clothes around."

"Where?" Vincent asked.

"Wherever. Schoolhouse, or the empty houses. But keep your gun handy if you go poking around. Critters move in to those places sometimes."

"Yeah," Trudy said. "Mantises, roaches, that kind of thing."

"Good to know," Vincent nodded. "All right, thanks."

He started for the door, but stopped at the divider wall and turned back to the bar.

"I might come back to say goodbye before I head out," he said to Trudy. She smiled.

"All right," the old man said, slightly surprised. Trudy's smile widened.

"Be careful out there," she said.

Vincent left the saloon with a smile on his face.

* * *

He went through three abandoned houses in Goodsprings.

One had no clothes whatsoever. All has been emptied there. Maybe no one ever lived there. The second house had plenty of women's clothing, but nothing male. The third house had men's clothes, but they were too small for Vincent. He tried a pair of pants but couldn't even pull it up on his thighs.

Disappointed, he pulled the blue jumpsuit back on, then strapped the Pip-Boy back to his hand and looked at it. There were three buttons under the screen. The one saying STATS under it had its little light on. The screen showed his body's condition, represented by a cartoonish man with an obnoxious grin.

He pushed the button saying DATA, and the light switched place. Now the screen showed radio stations. There was a radio in this thing?

Then he saw the words on the bottom of the screen. "Radio" had a frame around it, the rest of them didn't. He fiddled around with the rotatable switch and managed to move the frame from "Radio" to "World Map". And, sure enough, there was a map of the Mojave. What is more, an indicator was flashing on Goodsprings.

This device knew where he was.

He looked at the "Local Map" option. It was a map of Goodsprings, fairly accurate. Vincent blinked a few times.

"Hmm," he said to himself.

There was also a button on the Pip-Boy which turned a light on, like a flashlight. That was one more useful feature, although a bit awkward strapped to his hand. The "Notes" section he didn't care about, but apparently he could have taken notes there, as Mitchell said.

Lowering his hand with the device he left the house too look for another one where there was no farmer living. He walked to the house opposite this one, and tried the door. It was locked. Going around, he saw a tended garden at the backyard. Oops.

He went for another house, this time going around it to avoid misunderstandings. His eyes wandered up though, to the gas station up the hill, not far from the doc's house.

What the hell.

He looked back at the house, then up the hill again. He scratched his beard, debating.

After a while he groaned and stepped away from the house, starting for the hill. He walked past the windmill and the rusty wreck of what once was a blue pickup car and looked around there. No one was around. No one saw him. Good.

He hastened his steps and was a bit out of breath when he arrived. There was a broken round sign saying POSEIDON ENERGY on a pole next to the station which had all its windows boarded up. It could have been an outpost for someone in the past by the look of it, in this well-defendable position. There was an old supply truck on the right side at a roofed garage, and a Sunset Sarsaparilla vending machine near the entrance. The rest of the building was all boards and metal plates nailed to the original wall.

Taking a look at the vending machine, he put his hand on the doorknob and entered the gas station.

At first, he didn't see anything. The place was dark. But then a shadow stirred between two sets of white shelves. A man. He was sitting on the floor, looking at him surprised, and…

He had a gun!

Vincent jumped out to the open, hitting his shoulder on the door, and he was behind the wall when the bullet came through. BANG!

Clutching his shoulder, with his back to the outside wall, he cried out:

"Motherfucker!"

"That's close enough!" came the voice from inside. "Who are you, and what do you want with me?"

"Goddammit!" Vincent yelled. "I'm not an enemy! Put that gun away before I shoot you myself!"

"Who are you?"

"I'm just a courier! Mojave Express! I heard you're having trouble with the Powder Gangers, so, you know… I came to check out the place."

There was a silence. He swore under his breath. His heart was pounding against his chest. He sighed and looked up to the sky, cursing some more.

"Okay," came the answer finally from the inside. "Come in."

He turned from the wall and stepped inside for the second time. Ringo was waiting for him inside. He was a black-haired man in his thirties, wearing pretty much what everyone except Vincent was wearing around here. The pistol was still in his hand, held at Vincent at the man's hip.

"Goddamn, I told you to put the fucking gun away," Vincent said, flinching when he saw the weapon.

"I want to see you first. You could be lying."

"Fair enough," sighed the courier and spread his hands. Ringo eyed him with a mistrustful face.

"What is that, a prison jumpsuit?"

"It's a fucking Vault suit, I'll ditch it as soon as I can," Vincent said, irritated. "I was robbed, and now I can't find me some proper clothes. Look, I'm not a convict, I'm a courier."

"Mojave Express?"

"Yeah. Just down the road, in Primm. The supervisor's name is Johnson Nash. He's a black man…"

"All right, I think I know him, you're all right," Ringo said, lowering the gun.

"My name is Vincent. Are we all right then?"

The man nodded nervously.

"Yeah. My name is Ringo. Sorry about the gun. You just caught me off guard, that's all. I was looking around, and in you come in that blue suit. Thought you were a Powder Ganger."

"Yeah, I look like a convict in this rig."

Ringo let out a breathy chuckle.

"We got off to a bad start. What say we start over with a friendly game of Caravan? You know how to play?"

Vincent's brows went up.

"Sorry, buddy, but I'm not in the mood to play cards after getting shot at."

"Suit yourself," Ringo said. He stepped to the counter at the corner of the small room and put the gun down. He ran his hand through his combed-back hair.

"So," Vincent said. "I hear you've been having trouble with these convicts. Joe Cobb?"

"Yeah," Ringo sighed. " He doesn't look very tough though. I hear he's afraid I'll shoot him down from one of the windows when I see him, and he's right."

_Like you did with me?, _Vincent wanted to ask, but he didn't. He looked at the boarded-up windows and saw the gaps here and there. They weren't that visible from the outside. This gas station was definitely prepared for defense.

"I'll have a much bigger problem once his friends show up," Ringo said with his hands on his hips, looking around. "There's no way I could handle all of them in a gunfight."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to lay low as long as I can, assuming the town doesn't throw me to the wolves. I've got no chance against the gang on my own."

"Hey, listen," Vincent said calmly, trying not to sound intimidating. "You're causing this town a lot of trouble with you being here, you know?"

Ringo looked at him, his face suddenly growing resentful.

"I'm not saying it's your fault," Vincent added. "I'm just saying, that fella Cobb, he's threatening people down there. Says they gonna come in here and shoot the place up. Town don't wanna get mixed up in this shit, you understand me?"

"Yeah, but what should I do, kill myself? Or give myself up for the Powder Gangers s they can kill me?"

"No, no. But, you know, one man can slip away easily. You could leave. They'd think you were still holed up in here for days until they figured it out. You could be long gone till then."

"And watch my back for the rest of my life?"

Vincent sighed and shrugged.

"My caravan was on the return trip from California and heading back up to the company branch in New Vegas when we got jumped," Ringo said. "Not even a "drop your weapons and hands up" before the bullets started flying. We put up a good fight, but there was too many of them."

Vincent listened, nodding.

"I took a few of the bandits down before I ran, so I figure their friends are out for revenge. They're not going to stop until they have me. I don't know what to do."

"Sounds like you need some hired guns."

"Maybe. I don't know. I don't have that much money, I was robbed, remember? So, I'm, uh, staying in town for a bit."

Vincent looked at the desperate man. He was looking out on one of the gaps at the windows, the sunlight illuminating half of his face.

"So uh, you're a merchant."

"I'm a trader with the Crimson Caravan Company," Ringo replied.

A trader. Wasn't exactly a trained fighter. He did take down some of the bandits though, so he wasn't that much of a coward.

"How many of these jackasses are there?" Vincent asked. His voice was deep and calm now.

"Ten or so," Ringo said. "We took down five or six, I don't know."

"So if they'd come over here, and someone needed to held the fort, we'd be looking at what, eight, nine of these fuckers?"

"Why do you ask?" asked the trader, turning away from the window, looking directly into Vincent's eyes.

"You know. I'm a pretty good shot. Maybe I could help. Take some of them down till the rest run away. Shoot those in the back. Then you get the hell out of here while the rest are afraid back in their camp."

Ringo let out a breathy chuckle again.

"We'd just end up sharing the same grave if it's just the two of us."

"You said it yourself, they're ain't that tough."

"Cobb isn't. But who knows what the others were in prison for. Could be all killers. They can be excellent shots. Now, if some of the other people in town were also on board…"

"Whoa," Vincent said. "Don't get the townspeople involved, these are just farmers. They don't know how to shoot a gun."

"Sunny Smiles can. And she said there were others."

"Don't get them involved. They gonna get killed."

"Listen, I appreciate your help," Ringo said after a big swallow, "But I won't risk it. I'm not a mercenary, I'm not ready to die. The more we are, the more chance we have. We can organize a defense."

"So it's "we" now?" asked Vincent. "I didn't get on board with the whole town militia thing."

"That's right!" Ringo pointed a finger at him. "A militia! We could prepare the whole town!"

"Buddy. Calm down! We won't risk people's lives. It's you and me."

Ringo pressed his lips together. He looked like he was inches away from crying.

"Just ask them, all right? See if they're up for it. Look, I don't want to get anyone into danger, but if they volunteer, they know the stakes. Just see if there's anyone who would help."

"I don't know," Vincent pulled his mouth.

"Start with Sunny Smiles. She's been friendlier than most around here. Just… try. If no one wants to help, we'll think of something else."

Vincent looked in front of himself, thinking. He thought about his attackers, the pursuit. They could have well passed Primm now, maybe even Nipton.

Then, cursing at himself, he looked up and nodded.

"All right. I'll meet you back here when I have somethin'."

* * *

Doc Mitchell was sitting on the couch rereading a book for the third time when someone knocked on the door. He was confused for a bit, looking for his book-mark, then he found it under his thigh. The closed the book and set it down the table, then rubbed his bad leg as he limped to the door. He opened it to see who it was with a curious expression on his face.

It was Vincent.

"Doc. I need to talk to you. If it's no trouble."

"It ain't no trouble ever," Mitchell said with knitted brows. Vincent seemed anxious.

He led the courier back to the living room where they sat down at the same places when they did the psychology test.

"What seems to be the matter?" he asked. Vincent interlocked his fingers on his thighs. He was looking for words for a few seconds, then said:

"You know Ringo, the trader hiding from the Powder Gangers?"

"Yeah," the doc said with a sad sigh.

"He wants to organize some kind of defense here in town against the bandits. He thinks they're gonna attack Goodsprings. I tried convincing him to leave, but he won't do that. He feels cornered here, wants to fight."

Mitchell sighed again.

"Seems like wherever I go it's always the same. Folks just never leave each other alone."

"I tried telling him I'll help, but he's too scared to do it with only the two of us. And if he don't leave… The town's gonna get attacked either way. So, what I'm saying is, we either have to make Ringo leave, or fight with him. And I'm nobody here to decide what to do."

Mitchell listened, nodding now and then, with his arms folded. Then he stroked his moustache for a bit, contemplating what he heard.

"You got yourself into a middle of our town's troubles, my friend," he said finally. "I'm sorry."

"Well, it's gone down now, so no use cryin' about it."

"You're right about that."

"So? What do we do?"

Mitchell rubbed at his moustache some more.

"So I understand that if we make Ringo leave, he dies."

"He thinks so. And if he thinks so, he probably will too."

"I see. So we can't make him leave."

"Well," the courier shrugged. "He's a nice enough fella, but putting the whole town in danger for the sake of him…"

"We can't shoot him for being a coward," Mitchell said.

Vincent swallowed. He didn't say anything else on that subject. What he tried next is convincing himself.

"If we fight now," he said, "the Powder Gangers will be gone. They won't harass you folks again."

"True."

"Problem is, it's dangerous. I know I can handle myself in a fight, but what about folks here? We're gonna have to train them from scratch if we do this."

"How much time do you think we have?" asked the doc.

"I have no idea. That Cobb jackass seemed pretty angry."

Mitchell loosened the neckerchief around his neck.

"I planned on setting off today, to go after the bastards who shot me," Vincent said. "But I'd be the biggest son of a bitch if I left y'all now, when I might be your best bet to survive this."

"Quite heroic of you, that."

"Bullshit. Naw. Anyone with a conscience would do it."

"If you want to say it that way, I'm not gonna argue," the doc lifted his hands.

"So… What to do? Fight?"

"Seems like there's really no other choice," the doc said, looking away. "Look. I'm not much good in a fight, with my bum leg. And my supplies are scarce. But I'll give you what I can spare. That's what I can offer. As for the others…"

"Sunny might be interested."

"That she would definitely be. That girl's got fire in her. Hope it won't burn her bad."

"And I heard she can rouse up some people who know their guns."

"There are a few folks, yes,' Mitchell said. "But not a whole lot."

"If we convince these folks, they can convince others to join. We'll train them to shoot, tell them where to stand, where too point the gun. We'll keep everyone out of harm's way. The only one in harm's way's gonna be Cobb and his friends."

"I wish it'd go down that easily, my friend."

"It's tactics, doc," Vincent said. "We see where they're coming from, we know the town's layout. They don't stand a chance if they're not careful. And what I've seen of Cobb, they're bold and stupid. All bark and no bite."

Mitchell smiled.

"I think you're starting to believe your own bullshit."

Vincent chuckled.

"I've been shot in the head once, and my hands were tied. I lived. This time, I'm gonna be fully prepared with a gun in my hand."

"Sound like they don't stand a chance."

"They really don't, doc. They really don't."


	3. Chapter Two: That's Close Enough

Vincent was deep in thought. He stood around Mitchell's house for a while after he left, then started down the road and made his way to the saloon, constantly scratching the back of his neck. He sniffed as he reached it, spit on the cracked remains of the concrete road and stepped to the door. Pete was sitting outside on a chair – his usual chair, it seemed.

"Howdy," the old man nodded at him. Vincent nodded back, then opened the door and entered the bar.

Sunny Smiles was sitting at a round table next to a grimy window. She was eating some kind of nuts from a broken ashtray, her dog lying on its belly at her feet. Vincent stopped for a moment, then went to her table.

"Hey. Sunny," he said. The girl was already looking up at him.

"Hi there. Sticking around Goodsprings for awhile longer?" she asked with a small smile.

"Well, listen, can I talk to you about somethin'?"

"Uh, sure," she frowned a bit. "Have a seat."

Cheyenne was looking up at him with a curious expression and let off a soft whine as he sat down on a stool opposite the girl.

"What's the problem?" asked Sunny, seeing Vincent's distant frown which was constantly on his face in the past half hour.

"Well," he said, crossing his hands on the table. "I'm sure you heard about the Powder Ganger problem. That fella Ringo and all."

"Yes," Sunny said leaning forward a bit to hear Vincent's quiet tone.

"So here's the thing. I talked to Ringo, up at the gas station. And I tried to convince him to leave. However, he's a coward. Or just very scared right now. What I'm saying is, he's sure he'll get himself killed if he sets a foot outside of that place."

"Yeah. I went up there a few times, bringing food," Sunny said. "He seems like a nice guy though."

"Anyway," Vincent said, lifting an arm, "I gathered that this fella Cobb, he's threatening to shoot the town up if you don't give Ringo over to them."

He saw that Sunny didn't see the point of this conversation, he was telling things she already knew. Leaning even closer, he got to the point:

"I'm gonna help him fight these clowns off, but he needs more than me because he don't believe I can take them on by myself."

Sunny surprised him by immediately nodding.

"Say no more. I'm in."

He was taken aback a bit, raising his brows and sitting back in his chair.

"Just like that?" he asked after a moment of silence while Sunny's smile grew.

"Just like that," she said, then the smile disappeared from her face. She continued in a quieter voice. "I have a feeling that I'm going to end up fighting those guys one way or another, so I might as well get it over with. Joe Cobb talks about leaving us alone if we hand over Ringo, but I know his type. He and his friends will come after the town eventually."

"Hell," Vincent said. "I suppose I'm glad you're not asking if I'm outta my mind."

"That what you expected?" Sunny asked, taking a nut and dropping it in her mouth.

Vincent just shrugged. Sunny pushed the ashtray of nuts closer to him, and he shrugged again, taking one.

"However, no offense, but Ringo is right," she said while Vincent chewed on the tasty treat. "Between the three of us, we aren't exactly a force to be reckoned with."

"So are there any more folks who'd join us?"

"I can round up a few friends," she said, then looked to the left, towards the wall dividing this room from the bar. "And a lot of people around here look up to Trudy," she said when she turned back. "If we could convince Trudy to join us, some of the folks in town might decide to help out as well."

"You think she'd go for it?"

"Well I know she likes you," she lifted a shoulder. "And I'd be there to back you up."

"She likes me?" Vincent asked with a sly smile forming on one end of his mouth. Sunny rolled her eyes but smiled.

"Sure," she said, then added: "Convincing her that we had a good plan to win the fight would also help."

Vincent nodded, then considered that.

"So we should probably come up with a plan before we ask," he said.

"You don't have a plan?" the girl asked.

"I do, but it's all depending on you folks."

"Tell me," she said, leaning forward again, excitement in her eyes. She really did have that fire, as the doc said.

"We need to train these folks to minimize casualties," Vincent said. "So until the gang comes, we train. We look at how many men we have, and we figure out our tactics. I've done this before. It should be easy, defense is easier."

"I agree," Sunny said but her voice went up at the end, as if she was asking a question.

"We arrange covers and shooting spots, post guards, wait for the suckers to walk into our trap," Vincent continued. "It should be safe. There can't be more than fifty of them, ain't that right?"

"Much less, probably," Sunny nodded.

"These are things we should figure out though. How many of these fools are there, and what are they armed with. I saw Cobb and he had a bulletproof vest on. All of 'em have vests?"

"Some of them, yes," Sunny said. "Let me think."

Vincent let her. She crunched a few nuts as she looked into nothing in front of her on the table, counting in her head. Vincent looked down at the dog who was dozing on the dusty wooden floor.

Finally, Sunny said:

"I've seen maybe ten of them, visiting town now and then. Some scary goons among them. Cobb is the leader, but there are much meaner sons of bitches in his gang."

"That's what Ringo said too."

"I can scout the place if you want, but it'd be dangerous. It's a prison we're talking about after all. Guard towers, walls, everything."

Vincent was nodding, the he switched to shaking his head.

"Don't go there. We shouldn't waste time. We don't know when they're coming. Do you have binoculars though? You know, so we can post some guards on some roofs, watching out."

"Can be done," Sunny said.

"All right. Now, have you seen their weapons? What are we dealing with exactly?"

"Yes, that can be a problem," the girl frowned. "They're well-equipped. They're using the stuff they took when they took over the prison from the NCR. I've heard they're also sitting on a load of dynamite."

"That's where the name comes from, right?"

"Powder Gangers, yeah," she said, then her brows went up as she had an idea. "I know Easy Pete's got a stock of dynamite somewhere. We might get out own boom to fight back."

"You think the Gangers 're gonna throw dynamite around?"

Sunny shrugged, looking into his eyes.

"If they realize they're in a trap…"

"Hmm," Vincent thought about it. "Let's hope they won't have the time to realize they're about to lose. But you're right, we should have something of our own too."

"Easy Pete's pretty protective of his dynamite though," the girl said. "You'd have to convince him you know a thing or two about explosives before he handed it over."

"Me?" asked Vincent, surprised.

"Yeah. Why, you don't know about explosives?"

"Well, no," the courier admitted. "I'm more of a gun person."

"Oh. That could be a problem. I'll talk to him though, see if we can work something out. Another thing is the leather armor," she changed the subject, pointing an index finger at Vincent. "Chet just got a shipment of leather armor we could borrow."

"Like what you're wearing?" Vincent looked at the fitting brown leather on the girl.

"Yeah. Like this. Doesn't stop a bullet head-on, but it can take glancing hits. Also great against bites, I use it for that. But in this case, we should be worrying about knives, not bites."

"So we can get 'em from this Chet fella. He the store owner, right?"

"Right."

"He gonna just give 'em to us?"

Sunny pulled at her mouth.

"I don't think "give" is in Chet's vocabulary. Even with the town at stake, he'd still make you barter with him."

"Figured as much," Vincent growled. "I got the feeling he's the asshole merchant type, dealing with these bandits."

"You don't have much money, to buy the armor off him, huh," Sunny said, thinking.

"Nah. I'm not exactly well off these days."

"Maybe Trudy can talk some sense into him," she said, glancing at the bar again. She had one more suggestion: "Finally, there's a good chance we'll all end up with extra holes in us, so if Doc Mitchell could cough up some extra stimpaks, that'd be great."

"I got that covered," Vincent nodded. "Talked to the doc before I came here."

"Oh," the girl smiled. "I see."

"Yeah."

Sunny sat in silence for a while, leaning back. Then she scratched Cheyenne's head and said:

"So. I think we have a plan. Now we just need to convince Trudy too lend a hand."

"All right," Vincent said and stood up. Sunny stood too, and motioned with her head for the man to follow. Vincent let the dog get away from under foot and went after them.

When Trudy saw them step to the counter she let go of the rag with which she was cleaning the surface and looked at them with a small frown.

"Well you two look serious," she said. Sunny shot up her brows and looked back at Vincent who was standing a bit behind her, running a hand through his hair.

"We need to talk about something, Trudy," the girl said, reaching out with her hands and leaning on the counter. Vincent stepped closer, resting his hip on it and folded his arms. Now they really looked serious.

"I'm listening," the woman said, "Although I can guess what you're up to."

"Vincent and I decided to help Ringo and fight the Powder Gangers," Sunny said, then looked at Vincent expectantly. The courier cleared his throat and added:

"Yeah. Ringo won't leave, so the gang's gonna attack, and we need to be prepared."

"And that was my guess," Trudy sighed. "It's a big risk, but I suppose you have to do what you think is right." She turned around and started cleaning a pitcher which seemed clean enough already. "Just don't ruin the saloon if possible."

"Trudy, we need your help," Sunny said, leaning closer. "We need a militia, the more the merrier. I can round up a few people, but with your help…"

Trudy set down the rag again and turned to face them. She folded her arms and looked Sunny in the eye, then Vincent. Vincent involuntarily raised his eyebrows.

"The more people we have, the less the risk," Sunny continued. "We can train them, we can…"

She paused for a bit, thinking about the right words, and Vincent took over:

"We can take cover and wait till they step into our trap. It's possible they won't even shoot their guns at us. They're gonna be dead in a second."

"You're determined, that's for sure," Trudy said with the beginning of a small smile on her lips.

"We have a plan," Sunny said.

There was a pause. No one else was in the bar, so the silence was complete. Only the floor creaked once as Vincent stood from one leg to the other. Finally Trudy made up her mind and said:

"You know, I was planning on sitting this one out, but for some reason I can't help but like you."

Vincent couldn't help but smile and let off a silent laugh. Sunny smiled to herself too.

"I'm with you," Trudy said, looking at the two of them.

"Great," Sunny said. "This is gonna be easy."

"Don't get carried away," Trudy held up a finger. "I still need to ask around."

"What about the armor?" Vincent asked Sunny.

"Oh yeah," the girl nodded, then to Trudy: "Do you think you can convince Chet to give us those sets of leather armor?"

Trudy frowned.

"Give?"

"We'll give them back. We just need some protection."

"I could come with, convince him in another language if he don't like the terms," Vincent said. "I dealt with many merchants like him over the years."

Trudy seemed amused.

"Chet's not evil, just protective of his business," she said. "We can talk him into it. As you can see, I don't have anything else to do at the moment."

"Okay," Sunny nodded. "So you two go and talk to Chet. I'm going to find Easy Pete and ask him about the…"

She cut off. Trudy noticed of course.

"About what? His dynamite?" she asked. "He won't give it up. And it's a good thing that he won't."

"Well, let me just talk to him, okay?"

"Suit yourself," the woman shrugged, then looked at Vincent. Still talking to Sunny though, she said: "We'll meet back here after we're all done."

* * *

The Goodsprigs General Store was a building right next to the Saloon. In front of the porch there were a bunch of crates and barrels, and to the side there was a Mojave Express dropbox next to a rusty trash container. Vincent looked at it instinctively, then thought he should check it out later. He still had his job after all.

The store wasn't what he would have expected from the outside. It was pretty barren – once refrigerated containers with remnants of their missing glass panes were used as regular display cases in the middle, and there were wooden shelves lining the walls on both the left and the right side, but most of them were empty. Only a bunch of boxes and cans were to be considered merchandise, the rest of the items were clearly junk. Old magazines, empty bottles, scraps of metal sheeting around. A single rollerblade. A whetstone. A television with its screen broken. An odd sack of flour or something like that. There was a rusty metal shelf which looked one accidental touch away from falling apart.

In the back was a counter which was covered with glass once, but now it was all broken of course. What remained were the wooden shelves. There was at least something notable here: a pistol, and something that looked like a homemade bomb.

Behind the cash register there was a man with a broom in his hands, sweeping dust under a desk. He was wearing blue overalls over an old, once white shirt. He also had a bag over his shoulder, which was odd. Chet the store owner looked up when he saw Vincent opening the door and letting Trudy step in first.

"Trudy," he said, then he was taken aback when he saw the courier enter too. He scratched his short beard and left the broom leaning to the desk.

"No need to be alarmed, Chet. He's our friend," the woman said, walking to the counter. Vincent followed and stopped a bit behind her, his hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit.

"It's not what I wear usually," he said.

"No kidding," Chet said. He had a slightly high-pitched voice. "You must be the one Doc Mitchell was patching up."

"Yep," Vincent said. "It's me. My name is Vincent."

"Chet," the merchant said with his brows high up, and he leaned forward to shake hands. "The way I heard it, I didn't think you'd be walking out of the office."

"I didn't have the best chances, that's true."

Vincent glanced at Trudy. So far, Chet didn't seem like the asshole he was told to be. He guessed that would come later.

"So. What can I do for you two?" asked the store owner, leaning on the counter in front of the cash machine. Amusingly, there was a pre-war phone next to it. None of these worked anymore. It looked like something that was left there before the bombs fell two hundred years ago and never touched.

"We have a proposition," Trudy said, catching Vincent's eye. "Vincent here was talking to Ringo."

"Ringo," Chet frowned. "Yeah. I've been meaning to talk to you about him."

"Really?"

"Yeah. What's this proposition about?"

Trudy smiled for a second.

"What were you going to say about him?"

"What do you think?" Chet shrugged. "He's bringing trouble to the town. We should deal with him soon."

Trudy nodded, but saw that Chet was thinking on continuing, so she remained silent. Vincent stood there like a statue, trying not to disturb the process. Chet shrugged again, then stepped back from the counter and folded his arms defensively.

"If he doesn't head out on his own, I think we should hand him over. The town shouldn't get itself mixed into the problem."

Vincent involuntarily closed his eyes and raised his head in a mute curse. So it wasn't that easy. He let Trudy speak, but saw Chet looking at him, a bit irritated now, feeling cornered even though no one said anything yet. He wondered if the merchant knew what was coming.

"What we are proposing is something different," the woman said, stepping closer to Chet's counter. He narrowed his eyes.

"The whole town's gonna be in on it too," Vincent added.

"Yes," said Trudy.

"I hope you're not saying what I'm thinking you're saying," Chet said.

"Would it be so bad?" Vincent asked. "Taking on the Powder Gangers."

Chet let out a small laugh, not humorous, but an _"I can't believe this" _chuckle.

"How would it be good?" he retorted. "I mean, this is not our problem, it's Ringo's."

"We understand that," Trudy said with a reassuring tone. Vincent continued before she could though.

"Ringo is too much of a coward to run off by himself. He thinks the minute he gets out of Goodsprings there's gonna be a bunch of thugs waiting for him."

"That is stupid," Chet said.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is," Vincent nodded. "The problem is, nobody can convince him otherwise. The only thing I could convince him of was to get off his ass and fight with us."

"Now just hold on," Chet raised his voice, wiggling an index finger in front of himself. "I never voted to take on the Powder Gangers. That's a thousand cap investment you're talking about. Maybe you people don't have anything to lose in this, but I have a business here."

"I have a business too," Trudy said patiently.

"You don't serve them," Chet spread his hands.

"Because they are a bunch of bandits," she said.

There was a second of silence. Trudy was looking at Chet, Chet was looking at the ground. Vincent shook his head.

"Imagine how bad it would be for your business if these bandits took the town."

This was a trap and Chet knew it. He couldn't say his business would be as it was before, even if there was a possibility of that being true. Saying that would paint him as selfish. He looked at Vincent with anger in his eyes.

"Don't mistake what I'm saying for coward talk," he said. "We're a town of survivors, and we'll fight tooth and nail if pushed, I know that. But we don't go looking for trouble."

"Trouble is here now, Chet," Trudy said, drawing the merchant's gaze from Vincent. "We didn't look for it, Ringo brought it with him. And to be fair, the Powder Gangers are trouble even without Ringo."

"Are you seriously fine with supplying psycho assholes with your goods?" Vincent asked. Chet looked back at him, his eyes darting away from the woman.

"Now, don't gang up on me like that," Chet said. "Don't paint me as the bad guy here. I'm a businessman, I do business."

"So, these bandits are perfectly fine fellas as long as they beat up other folks, not you," Vincent said matter-of-factly.

"What could I do anyway?" Chet said, close to yelling now. "I'm no gunslinger. Like you."

He said the last word with scorn, pointing at Vincent with his chin. Vincent almost smiled.

"You can supply us with armor and weapons so we'd have even more chance of defeating them," Trudy said. "We have a good chance right now, but with your help, it's possible that no one would get hurt."

"Possible this, possible that," Chet shook his head, irritated. "You won't guilt me into giving them to you for free. It will cost you."

"You know I don't have the money for all of that," Trudy said.

"You said the whole town was in on it. You'll manage to get the caps together."

Vincent sighed, then cleared his throat and stepped closer. He leaned forward and put his hands on the counter. Chet almost stepped back.

"Okay, pal," Vincent started. "Here's the thing. I realize you and I won't agree on whether or not it's a slimy thing to do to haggle over a battle for your home town."

Trudy looked away, either because she felt that was strong or because she actually liked it and she was suppressing a smile. Chet's mouth formed into a furious frown.

"I don't wanna bully you into this," Vincent continued, in a deep voice which suggested otherwise at least a little bit, "Since as you hinted, not everyone needs to be a thug like me. But I do want you to listen to me. Are we clear on that? Right. So. Think of this as an investment. All right? You loan us that armor, give us some weapons and ammo."

Chet wanted to interject here, but Vincent raised his voice.

"Lemme finish! Listen. You loan us your stuff. We kill all the Powder Gangers. We give the armor back, and if there was any damage to any piece, someone fixes it for ya, for free. You can take whatever you find on the dead bandits too."

Chet actually started to think about it half-way through Vincent's proposition. When the courier was finished, she looked at Trudy, who was in thought too.

"Now, how does that sound to you two?" Vincent asked. Trudy looked him in the eye.

"Fine by me," she said. Vincent started raising his hand to lift his hat, and again, he realized he didn't have one. He really needed a hat.

He looked back at Chet who was scratching his moustache and beard with his palm.

"If the bandits clear out of the area," Trudy added, adding to the argument, "There will be more caravans heading here too."

"Yep," Vincent said. "Better than selling ammo to murderers and assholes."

Chet was in thought for what seemed like a minute. Then he took his palm off his face and swallowed.

"You made your point," he said. "But this better be good. I'm not going to die because of your shootout."

"You can hide in that refrigerator for all I care," Vincent said, pointing at a refrigerator through the back door which led to either a living area or a storage. "You don't have to go anywhere near the shootin'. Just supply us so we can kick their sorry asses."

Chet rolled his eyes on the mockery, but he understood.

"I can provide people with some leather armor and extra ammo," he said quietly. "I sure hope it's worth it. And, uh, yeah, I'll be guarding the store while all this is going on. I have to put my business first, you understand."

"Oh, I understand all right," said Vincent with a small smile in the corner of his mouth, turning to Trudy. She smiled back at him, then started thanking Chet and trying to reassure him. Vincent didn't feel that polite and after a nod to the merchant he went out the door to look for Sunny.

* * *

At first Sunny was out of sight. Vincent paced in front of the saloon, wishing for a hat again, the sun burning his scalp under his graying hair.

Trudy came out from the store and saw him. She smiled and stepped beside the courier who stopped pacing.

"Your magic work?" Vincent asked. Trudy's brows shot up, still smiling.

"Magic?"

"Ya know. Words an' all," said the courier, jamming his hands in the jumpsuit's side pockets and shrugging. The woman chuckled.

"Well, he's calmed down, if that's what you're asking. But I think your words were the magic here."

"I scared him, didn't I?"

Seeing the smile in the corner of his mouth, Trudy folded her arms.

"Maybe."

Vincent nodded, looking around for Sunny – and to look away from Trudy for a second. When he glanced back, the woman was still looking at him. He met her eyes and tilted his head a bit.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Nothing," Trudy said and smiled again.

Then Sunny called out.

"Vincent! Trudy!"

They both turned in the direction of the girl's voice. Sunny was coming from the houses, a short man with a tattered straw hat following her. Vincent walked towards them to close the gap, and Trudy followed him after a second. They all met near where the two roads of the town met each other, the occasional creak of the metal windmill whining into their conversation.

"Hey," Sunny said. "So, Billy and I talked to Easy Pete."

"And?" Vincent asked expectantly.

"No good. He said we'd blow the town up, all that talk."

"Well, why doesn't he chuck the dynamite at them then?" shrugged Vincent.

"I suggested that," the man apparently named Billy spoke. He was in his thirties, his back was arched a bit, but his arms seemed strong and his nails were dirty from farm work. "He said he was too ol' for fightin'."

"I'm Vincent," the courier introduced himself. "Pleased to meetcha."

"Bill," the man shook his hand. "Sunny told me 'bout this war we're havin'. Thought I help out."

"The more, the merrier," said Sunny.

"Damn right," Vincent nodded. "So you started gathering folks?"

"Billy found me, but I haven't started going house to house yet. But that's our next step."

Trudy nodded too.

"I'll talk to some of my friends who could help out," she said. "You go ahead and talk to the younger ones."

"All right," Sunny said. "Let's all meet at the saloon when we're done. Have a gathering."

Trudy went off and Vincent looked after her.

"Come on, Vincent," Sunny said. "Tim and his dad live over there."

The courier turned away from Trudy, nodded and followed the girl.

* * *

Stray bullets shot up patches of dirt behind the highway, missing the empty bottles stacked up on crates on the cracked asphalt. A last one hit a crate, and there was the cracking sound of wood after the loud clap of the varmint rifle.

"Whoa, whoa, easy!" cried out Vincent, unintentionally raising his voice while he put his hand on the shoulder of a middle-aged man whose hands were shaking. When the shooting stopped, the courier calmed down and added: "Don't try to get 'em that fast. 'S not gonna work if you're tryin' to prove somethin'."

The man nodded nervously and swallowed, drops of sweat dripping down his nose. Vincent looked over to Sunny, who was trying to get a jammed rifle operational again, shaking the bolt handle. She felt the gaze on her and looked up. Vincent made a frown, basically saying _I don't know if I can get half of these people to shoot straight. _She made an empathetic shrug and got back to the faulty rifle.

"Take your time," Vincent said to the learning man, whose name was Travis, if he remembered correctly. He was a farmer, like most Goodsprings folks, and he did know how to operate a gun, he was just nervous. He never shot at people before. Vincent wasn't sure if anybody had.

The courier was the best shot around here, without a doubt. Sunny was a close second, but he feared she was too confident and might hesitate when her sights were on some bandit boy's forehead and not on a gecko or a stray dog. Ringo was good too, despite his cowardice, and besides, he seemed more and more at ease, waiting for payback.

Trudy knew her guns too, which was a big surprise to Vincent. When she said she would join the fight with a pistol in her hand he instantly said no. Then she convinced her they'd need all the help they can get, and she wants to take part in the town's stand. Vincent gave himself a mental slap for caring so much.

They were the instructors. Vincent, Sunny, Ringo, Trudy, and another man named Clyde. He was a hard-faced black man with a goatee, over fifty, and apparently, he was guarding merchant caravans back when he was young, before he married a Goodsprings woman almost ten years older than himself. Vincent liked him.

"Okay," said the man named Travis, more to himself than to Vincent. He aimed more carefully this time, inhaled, then took a shot. It missed.

"Aim a little lower," Vincent said, standing behind him and leaning forward with his hands on his thighs. "Not too low though. No need to flail around with that gun."

Travis aimed, shot one off, and the bullet got lodged in one of the crates. He aimed too low.

"Keep at it. Slowly. It ain't a race just now. We're beginners here."

He suspected the only time this farmer shot a gun was in the air to scare off critters. But if he could get the hang of shooting at the bottles, he could be stationed lying behind cover and playing shooting gallery with Powder Ganger knees. Vincent saw Cobb wearing a bulletproof vest so instructions were to aim at the heads for good shots and aim at limbs for the beginners.

Trudy and Clyde were training people at the saloon wall where Sunny tested Vincent. On the saloon porch there was a box full of empty bottles to replace the broken ones. Ringo was standing next to it, drinking the rest of a Sarsaparilla and dropping the bottle onto the pile. He pocketed the cap, then took three steps and was next to Vincent.

"It's all right," he said, and the courier realized he was talking to Travis. "I was worse when I first learned to shoot."

Vincent was worried Travis might feel patronized, but the man didn't show discomfort. He took another shot, missed, took another one, missed again, then on the third shot he hit a bottle.

"Yes!" he whispered to himself.

"Well done!" Ringo said.

"Reload," Vincent said. "You're out of ammo."

"I am?" Travis said standing up from kneeling, stretching his legs. He took a magazine from the courier.

"Yep," Vincent said matter-of-factly. Travis saw he was right when he looked at the empty magazine. He reloaded without needing any help.

Next to him, a young woman with dirty blonde hair was picking off bottles without missing any of them. She was one of Sunny's friends, and a rare sight, as most Goodsprings residents were men, and most women were older. When Vincent devised the plan to hide the children and the elderly in Doc Mitchell's house, he was told there were no children. Not a single kid. The three families with children left a month or so ago to try and live in New Vegas.

"I told you you're a good shot," Sunny said to the other girl. Her name was Tiffany, everyone called her Tiff.

"If I'm not nervous, yeah," she said. "I won't be much help when the Powder Gangers come."

"You smell that?" Sunny asked, and she finally got the jammed rifle to work.

"What?" Tiff asked back. Sunny jammed a magazine into the gun and shot a bottle from where she stood.

"It's bullshit," she said. Travis was distracted and he missed again.

"Come on, Uncle Travis," Tiff smiled at the man. "You can do it."

"You're distractin' me, girl," he said, but there was a small smile trying to hide on his face.

"If you can shoot bottles while a pretty girl is talking to you, you can shoot some goons anytime," Sunny said. Travis chuckled. He didn't seem interested in a girl who could be her daughter, but he didn't talk back.

Ringo scratched the back of his neck under his neckerchief, scanning the horizon. Despite the light-hearted banter, everyone was a bit nervous about the coming battle. Some more than a bit. Ringo's hand wandered to his mouth and he audibly bit into his thumbnail.

* * *

They had sentry shifts at night too. Vincent was kneeling slightly uncomfortably on a stool up on the roof of the saloon in a suit of totally uncomfortable, unfitting leather armor, looking over the front wall which was taller than the other three walls of the building. The colorful letters flickered into the night, obscuring the courier's watchful face over the "PROSPECTOR's" second "P".

If the Powder Ganger's came, the sentry – in this case, Vincent, or Clyde on the other side of town – had to warn the others. One shot at a thug from the roof, and the whole militia would have woken up before the son of a bitch hit the ground. Everyone was sleeping in their clothes – some even had their armor on.

But this night was quiet so far. Vincent wasn't sleepy – he slept through the first shift, and at his job he learned to get by on a few hours of sleep. Five hours was more than enough.

He tried not to move too much. The metal plating on the roof made nasty loud noises when the stool's legs slid around.

Nothing but the loud, constant noise of crickets for hours. Only a few sounds stood out. A coyote howled once in the distance. Even farther a dog barked. One time, a huge bloatfly buzzed past the back of the saloon. The foul insects could be dangerous and aggressive. They were as big as a man's head and when threatened they could shoot some kind of disgusting larvae at you, hard as bone.

This one didn't notice Vincent though, and he let it live, not so much because of some philosophy, but because he didn't want to make unnecessary noise.

The bighorners were lumps of furry shadow in their pens, some lying down, some sleeping standing up, one or two watching over the herd. Vincent smiled, thinking the animals were sentries like him tonight. Animals can certainly notice danger coming faster than a human sometimes.

The Moon was behind a veil of tattered brownish clouds, the air chilly in the night but finally fresh, not flavored with the smell of sun-cooked concrete and dust. Vincent grabbed the Sarsaparilla bottle standing in arm's reach and took a sip.

It seemed like this night was free from bloodshed.

* * *

"What if one of 'em gets too close?" a villager asked with his rifle in hand on the next morning. Everyone had their breakfast already, and it was time to train again. Vincent, leaning on a crate with some empty bottles, raised his brows.

"They won't," he said. "But if that happens, you do this."

He stood, got his rifle into his hands from his back, and suddenly hit the air with the butt of the weapon in face-level.

"Or, kick 'em in the nuts. Works even better."

"Just as I thought," the farmer nodded, and the courier smiled.

After an hour and a half of shooting practice with some subpar ammunition coerced from Chet, they went over the tactics and everyone's place again. Then they pulled some crates around from the general store under the owner's watchful eye, making some more cover in front of the saloon. Sunny was standing at the roof of the saloon with her elbows on the top of the taller wall, looking down at the people gathered outside, occasionally casting a glance in the distance, scanning for bandits in the trembling air of the horizon. Someone sneezed loudly at the other target range obscured by the building.

After the arranging of covers they practiced getting into position. Everyone went home and sat down, then Sunny fired twice in the air, and to this signal everyone ran to their stations. The better shots were a bit more exposed at the crates on the main town road, the novices were safe behind buildings – they weren't very significant anyway, if they took some shots to scatter the bandits, or even hit someone, they did more than their share of the town's defense.

Three of these drills later Vincent was sure the militia could be in place in a minute, which was enough. Of course when the Powder Gangers came, the signal wouldn't be a gunshot. Vincent, Ringo and Sunny volunteered to take a run around town to alert everyone when it was time.

After another hour of shooting practice and gun-maintenance (this time, Sunny and Clyde threw bottles in the air for the better shots to hit – it was successful enough) everyone sat down to have lunch. Vincent was in the saloon with Ringo, enjoying tasty steaks and sweet cactus fruit brought to them by Trudy, the music from the jukebox making their voices raised when they talked.

"This one's for free," Trudy said with a slight lopsided smile that almost made Vincent's heart skip a beat. "It's the least I can do to help. Make sure you are well-fed."

"Very kind of you," the courier said with a bottle in his hand. He snatched the bottle opener from the counter in front of the woman and popped the cap down. When it fell on the table he pushed it forward. "Here's your tip," he said.

"Keep it," Trudy said, pushing the cap back towards Vincent, who put his finger on it too to stop it in the middle. Their fingers touched and they looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Ringo made an embarrassed face and turned away slightly, biting into a yellow fruit.

"It's yours," Vincent said, not taking his eyes off Trudy. The woman stared back.

"You're mistaken."

Then Vincent shook his head in mock disbelief and turned back down to the rest of his meal. They left the bottle cap on the counter.

As they ate they chatted a bit, suspended occasionally by Trudy taking orders and serving drinks and meals. When she was idle and talking to Vincent she made an effort to include Ringo in the conversation, but the man was usually distracted and only replied with one or two words.

Vincent had to do something about Ringo. He was no use shitting his pants in the fetal position behind cover while the bullets went flying.

"Hey, Ringo," he said after they both finished their food. "I guess I could take you up on that game of Caravan."

He had no words of encouragement other than the ones he already spoke. But he figured he could calm the man a bit with his favorite game. To his relief, Ringo shrugged and turned on his stool to face the courier.

"All right."

"You have your cards here?"

"No, they're back at the gas station."

They said goodbye to Trudy and got out of the Saloon. Sunny was on the roof bobbing her head to the jukebox's muffled music reaching her from the inside.

"Hey there," she said when Vincent looked up at her.

"Hey. We're gonna be up at the gas station for a while."

"All right. Still no sign of bandits, but be ready."

"Always," Vincent said, wanting to lift his nonexistent hat again.

* * *

The militia was in down-time, everyone resting or doing their daily work. There was no use in training all day and exhausting everyone. Vincent and Ringo spent time with playing cards.

Caravan was a fun game if you learned the rules well. It needed cards from various decks which were made in the numerous casinos of New Vegas. Vincent had his own deck which he acquired by trading and buying from others over the years. The leather case that held his cards was on his belt though, which was stripped down and taken by the bandits who shot him. Ringo had hundreds of cards on him though, and one player only needed thirty of them.

"Keep them," the merchant said when Vincent assembled his playing deck from browsing through the creased, sun-bleached or otherwise stained cards. "On the house. They don't worth much anyway."

"I can see that," Vincent said, but he did manage to pick ones in fairly good condition.

Since Vincent didn't have a solid amount of caps either, they didn't place bets, just played for fun. They were sitting on the floor behind the gas station counter and laid out the rows of cards on a cloth, illuminated by the sun's rays coming in through the cracks in wooden paneling of the fortified windows.

Ringo was tense, but after five games he was at least a bit better.

"Hey. Man," he said once. "Thanks for… for all this."

"Thank me after," Vincent replied, pulling a card from his deck. "For now, concentrate on being helpful in the fight. You're good shot. Don't let that skill go to waste."

"Yeah. Yeah," Ringo said looking in front of himself. Vincent tilted his head to look at his face and hoped he wasn't too harsh. But when the man looked up at him and nodded, he saw that Ringo understood what the situation was.

They played another five games, and Vincent was ready to suggest them taking a break when there was a knock at the door. Both of them jumped to their feet and their guns were in their hands by the time Sunny burst into the room.

"Time to look alive," she said slightly out of breath. "The Powder Gangers are here to play."

Vincent was fast.

"Come on," he said patting Ringo's elbow and hurried outside with the girl. The merchant caught up to them on the road, fiddling with his gun belt.

"You tell everyone?" the courier asked.

"Not yet," Sunny said, then turned and started to run towards the houses. "You take the left!"

Vincent and Ringo ran to every house and banged on every door. In some houses the villagers hid or peeped out the windows. From others, the members of the new Goodsprings militia appeared in their borrowed leather armor, nodding at Vincent, starting for their practiced positions.

"How many?" Vincent asked Sunny when they alerted everyone.

"At least six, Joe Cobb included," Sunny said, now wheezing a bit. "They look pretty mean."

"Six? They must think that's enough," the surprised Vincent said, following the girl to the assembly at the saloon.

"They're not expecting the militia!" Ringo said, hope in his voice. And he was right.

To Vincent's dismay, Trudy was there with the armed villagers, squatting behind a crate, her knees dirty under her skirt. She was supposed to be inside the saloon, shooting from a window. The courier ducked behind cover next to her while Ringo moved to another box near them. Sunny climbed on the Saloon roof. Clyde was already there.

"They're walkin'," he said. Everyone was waiting in silence so every word could be heard.

"Six bandits," Sunny whispered loud enough for everyone. So it was really six.

"What are you doing here?" Vincent whispered to Trudy. The woman was holding a varmint rifle, the muzzle resting on the dirt.

"What do you mean?" Trudy looked at him. "I'm defending Goodsprings."

Then she turned to peek around the crate.

"You're exposed here," Vincent said, trying not to raise his voice too much. "Get back behind a wall!"

"I won't. They'll shoot up the windows," Trudy said, turning back. Her face was inches from Vincent's.

"They'll shoot _you_ up here!"

"Don't worry about me," the woman said with anger in her voice, looking deep into his eyes. For a second, Vincent was speechless. Then Trudy turned away from him, putting both hands on her gun, waiting for the Powder Gangers. Vincent bit his lip but didn't say more.

"They're close now," said Clyde in a raspy whisper on the roof.

Vincent met Ringo's eyes. The man seemed determined but his hands were shaking. He was holding his own handgun.

"All right, I'm ready. I hope," he said.

_I hope so too, _Vincent though, but all he did was nod firmly.

As planned, nobody was peeking anymore. Everyone hid perfectly. The only sentry was Clyde and Sunny on the saloon roof. They would give the signal, and then everyone would let the bullets fly. The signal was the first shot – and hopefully, the first kill.

Vincent wondered if the bandits would sense they were walking into a trap. Cobb could decide the town was too quiet. They could start throwing dynamite on the road to flush the militia out from behind cover. Did they have long-range rifles? This plan was riding on the Powder Gangers being cocky and stupid. It was dangerous.

But if the plan worked, it wasn't dangerous at all.

The courier felt them getting closer. He resisted the urge to peek, as did everyone else, fortunately. A gust of wind swept the road with gravelly dust, picking into Trudy's skirt and Vincent's hair. A pebble started to hurt the courier's knee, but he did not dare move now. He could hear the bandits now, coming into town on the road with loud confidence. He inhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

Then, a shot, echoing through town, coming from the roof.

And it started.

Everyone got out from cover and started shooting.

There were six bandits. To Vincent's surprise, only two had firearms: Cobb and another man went down on their knees several yards from the road in the brown grass and returned fire. The rest held nailed planks and knives, and they surprised Vincent again when they didn't get on the ground but started charging ahead with crazed cries. One of them, half naked, had a wound on his shoulder already, blood painting his torso as he ran.

Vincent aimed at the closest bandit, a man in a blue prison jumpsuit holding a two-by-four like a baseball bat. He didn't have a bulletproof west, so the courier aimed for the biggest target. The thug stopped for a second when the bullet hit his chest, but then he started coming at the town again, without showing any pain.

"Drugged sons of bitches," Vincent muttered, aimed, and shot the man in the forehead. That made him recoil as if he was punched in the nose, went down on the ground and never moved again.

To the left another half-naked junkie was forced on his knees by several gunshot wounds. He continued coming on four limbs, holding his knife until he was hit in the head too.

Was this the Powder Ganger plan? Then Vincent thought, it would have probably worked if there was only Sunny and Clyde defending the city, caught off guard. But like this, it was a shooting gallery.

There was a crack of glass and Trudy yelled "Dammit!" One of the bandit shooters must have hit one of the saloon windows. The woman stood up and aimed, but she immediately ducked back behind the crate, followed by a shotgun's blast hitting the wood in front of her. Cobb's armed friend got closer and was unloading his close-range gun on them. Vincent saw the weapon – it only had two shots. When the thug turned to the general store and took a shot at the two villagers kneeling there, Vincent emerged from his cover and squeezed the trigger.

The bandit was fast though – he dropped on the ground, Vincent's bullet flying over his head, then he rolled to the side, already fishing in his pockets for shells to reload. The ground was torn with small fountains of dirt as the militia tried to hit him. A bit farther away another melee junkie fell from a lucky shot to the heart, kicking twice and dying in seconds.

Vincent aimed at the rolling bandit, trying to anticipate where he was rolling, and took another shot. The bandit was lucky and stopped, making Vincent miss.

"Shit," the courier growled.

"Look out!" came a yell from behind him. It was Doc Mitchell. "Vincent!"

Vincent turned and saw the doctor standing in his open door, shouting with all his might. Then he ducked and there was wood chippings and dust around him. Someone was shooting at him and hit the doorframe. The doc stumbled and fell back into the house, disappearing from sight.

"No!" Vincent yelled out. "They're flanking us!"

Six other Powder Gangers came into view, two junkies with butcher's cleavers and three shooters coming from among the houses. They unleashed chaos.

The people in the middle behind the crates suddenly became sitting ducks, including Vincent, Ringo and Trudy. Vincent grabbed the woman without a word and shoved her behind another crate to cover her. She fell on her bottom and cursed but she was covered from both sides now.

Ringo turned to face the flankers and unloaded his handgun. One of the junkies was hit in the knee and fell hard on his face, immediately trying to get up while spitting teeth. Sunny was lying prone and took a masterful shot, hitting a gunman between the eyes.

"I'm out!" yelled Ringo and ran next to Trudy while reloading his gun. Another man, a farmer, stood up behind him, running for the same spot, but he was knocked down by a shotgun blast and stopped moving. Fuck!

Vincent started in a ducking run in the other direction, passing the dead man. The ground and the crates were peppered with bullets around him. He jumped and rolled, hurting his shoulder and back, and landed on strained, aching knees in the grass where the ground was sloping down from the road. At least partially covered by the ground he aimed at the newcomers.

The other cleaver-junkie was just reaching Mitchell's door. Vincent tensed and with a rush of adrenaline and worry he shot him in the back of his head. The crazed thug toppled and fell in the house dead.

There was yelling as another villager got shot in the thigh and the girl named Tiff tried to help him stop the bleeding. Vincent quickly took a look behind him where the man he missed was lying in the middle of the road face down on his shotgun. At least he wasn't a threat anymore.

But then a bullet hit dangerously close to him and he had to roll even farther away. When he got up he couldn't see the shooters anymore from the slope. He went down on his stomach and crawled back into position.

Ringo was returning fire and Trudy was sitting behind cover reloading. Sunny shot a gunner in the knee and he fell, cursing on the top of his voice. Two bandits remained. One was kneeling behind a rickety fence, the other was running for the general store where there was supposed to be a member of the militia, apparently dead now. By the time he reached cover he got hit in the chest and stomach.

"No!" Sunny screamed on the roof. Vincent didn't see, but he guessed Clyde was down, either wounded or dead. Cobb must have been still over there somewhere. Vincent, with rage in his heart now, took aim at the gunner at the fence and took three shots. One tore through the wood but still hit the man, the second hit his shoulder and the third his adam's apple, making him fall back spitting blood. He got hit three more times by other villagers.

The bandit hiding behind the general store leaned out to shoot at Trudy and Ringo. Vincent raised his rifle at him, but he got back to cover before he could shoot. The courier swore as the Powder Ganger's blue suit disappeared from view. He waited for him to appear again, but he did not come. From the right there was still some occasional shooting but the noise died down somewhat, and Vincent's ears were ringing. Drops of sweat were glistening on his eyebrows.

He aimed at the other side of the general store – he guessed the bandit would try flanking the two villagers at the saloon wall. Standing up and stepping to the right to have a better shot he called out.

"Travis, look out!"

The farmer looked at him confused, but the man next to him knew what he meant and turned, bringing his shotgun up. The bandit stepped into view, indeed trying to catch them off guard. Vincent took a shot, but he saw the villager's gun flash and the Powder Ganger was knocked back by the blast. It was enough to kill him.

Every thug was dead. Except Joe Cobb. Vincent turned and he saw the man in his bulletproof vest with a pistol in his hand, shooting at Sunny from behind a ruined house. The girl returned fire and Cobb ducked.

Vincent looked at all the dead bodies, including Goodsprings villagers. He was very angry now. As Cobb disappeared he stood up. The remaining villagers were shooting in the direction of the house, sending bits of wood and debris flying. Sunny ducked out of view, probably to tend to Clyde.

The courier started walking towards the house on the edge of town, opposite the saloon. He checked his rifle as he heard Cobb open fire on the other side now.

"Motherfuckers!" the Powder Ganger leader cried. "I'm gonna burn this town to the ground!"

Vincent broke into a trot. The rifle had two shots remaining. He tossed it aside and took out his handgun. The villagers saw what he was doing and stopped firing.

"Vincent!" he heard Trudy call out.

He reached the house and got behind it, searching with his eyes for Cobb. The man was a bit farther away, out from cover, running back from a fallen comrade. He had a stick of dynamite in his right hand and a zippo lighter in the left. He did not expect to appear face-to-face with Vincent though.

Cobb dropped the zippo and reached for his gun which he put back in its holster on his belt. But Vincent already had his gun up.

He had thirteen shots, a full clip.

Cobb grabbed the gun and started pulling it.

Vincent squeezed the trigger three times. One, two, three, all in the bandit's vest. Cobb endured the pain of the bullets stopping in the Kevlar and raised his gun. Vincent fired again. Four, five, six, all in the vest again. Bang, bang, bang. Cobb staggered.

Seven, eight, nine. Pop, pop, pop. Dust was flying from the torn NCRCF vest. Cobb's face was contorted in agony as the bullets kept hitting him in the chest. The gun slipped from his fingers and fell on the ground. Vincent was still walking towards him, only a few yards away now. He squeezed again. Ten, eleven, twelve.

Cobb was yelling with bared teeth and he stumbled even more backwards, then dropped to one knee. He leaned forward to reach for his dropped pistol. Vincent reached him and kicked him in the face. The bandit fell on his back with a sickly thud.

Vincent stood next to Cobb and stepped on his chest with his right boot. The man cried out in pain with tears in his eyes and grasped the courier's feet, but there wasn't enough strength in it. Vincent aimed his pistol at the growling head. Cobb was squirming under him now, kicking with his feet and shaking his head, a constant angry and scared whimper coming from his throat.

"Thirteen," said Vincent and pulled the trigger.


End file.
